


Libertine Leanings

by GrantairetheCynical (Rebel_Atar)



Series: Grantaire The Cynical [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Object Insertion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 10:27:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 3,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6701191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebel_Atar/pseuds/GrantairetheCynical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of NSFW drabbles exploring the concept of Grantaire as a Libertine. Written in response to prompts left on the grantairethecynical tumblr blog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Devils

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: They had to make deals with the Devil.

They could not possibly be human, to do the things they did. It could not be possible for a human to bestow so much pleasure, otherwise why would it be so secret, why would anyone ever scorn this.

Rene could not fathom it, as she pulled his hair and bit at his lips, as he crooked his fingers and applied sinful and slick suction, as the bonds slid silkily against his wrists. How could you deny that this part of a person existed unless it was not supposed to.

If they were human, then they must have dealt the devil their very souls to be able to give such ecstasy to a person. There was no other truth that could exist.  
For if they were human, then he could have bee n doing this years ago. If they were human then this could continue, in every encounter for the rest of his life and he did not know if he could stand such perfection.

How could anyone find offense in this, find shame in this so pure and delightful pleasure. Unless those who gave it had made deals with the devil to do what they did.


	2. Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: It was always safer when it was dark.

He had been in Paris nearly two years now, and had long discovered the delights to be had in certain parts of the city. However he knew the scorn that went with openness about such things. He had never realised how close minded or blind people could be until he had been introduced to that world. He had not realised how blind he was until they had taught him how to see.

His master was a respectable man, and while he cared not for his own reputation he would not bring shame upon the one to whom he owed everything.

However, he could neither suppress his own desires, his own very nature, and so he waited. He waited for the sun to dip below the horizon, for night to fall, for all the good citizens to be a sleep in their beds so that the denizens of the dark could walk freely.

He waited until dark to the soirees, and revels, and brothels. It was always safer when it was dark.


	3. Concerning Marble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The most attractive body

He wondered what he must look like, underneath all the well put together dress. Beneath the red coats and waistcoats, beneath the shirts and cravats and trousers what would be laid bare to him.

He wondered if the skin that he caught glimpses of beneath collars and cuffs would me smooth white alabaster or lightly bronzed as was sometimes hinted at. He wondered if there was any hair across that broad chest or if there was only a tantalising trail from navel down to far below waistband.

He mused on whether the arms would be slender or sculpted muscle. If beneath trousers calf, thighs and buttocks were formed of strong defined lines, roughly hewn from his marble or subtle arching curves.

It did not help that the blasted man left his shirt half undone more than half the time and his cravat entirely undone nearly the entire time.

Though Grantaire may not know for sure what lay beneath the expanses of fabric that covered his Apollo any more than the amounts teasingly bared to him during meetings, he knew that it would be perfection. The most attractive body he would ever wish to see.


	4. Substitute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: It surprised him to discover that he *could* still be disappointed.

The man was young and lithe, slender but muscular. His blonde hair was soft and curly and almost the right colour. He had no objection to the name he would be called for the night and he had been good.

Afterwards…Grantaire had felt even more empty, even more hollow than he had before, and he had never thought that sex could still be disappointing with all the things he had learned. He thought that as far as he had fallen that he could still feel disappointment, as if there was somewhere lower to fall to yet. It surprised him most of all that as wretched and jaded and bitter as he was, as detached and aloof as he tried to be, he could still be disappointed in himself. He resolved never to try this again.


	5. Failed Fantasies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire tries and fails to ignore a problem

He lay sprawled out on top of his covers. He was already achingly hard but still looked at the bottle of oil in his hand with quiet contemplation. He should not really be doing this, it was a gross defilement of his idol but yet he could not help it. Was it his fault that the voice raised in revolutionary speeches struck him straight to the core. That golden hair and icy glares did something terrible to his insides until his mouth was dry and his pulse was racing. Perhaps if he indulged in this…guilty pleasure, and gods did he think he had gotten past empty emotions like shame and guilt by now, perhaps if he indulged it might alleviate things a little. Lesson the symptoms, lesson the sickness.

Decision made he slid a pillow beneath his own hips and slicked his fingers. He lay back, bent and spread his legs.  
He took it slow, not that he needed to, but he savored each sensation. He closed his eyes and imagined it was another’s finger circling his entrance, another that was slowly teasing his way inside.  
He gasped at both imagery and sensation, thrusting the finger into himself a while before adding the second and beginning the delicious stretch.  
He scissored them, crossed and uncrossed, and splayed them, breathy moans wrested from his own lip. He thought of blue eyes filled with want and mischief instead of scorn and disapproval, of a mouth in a sly smile instead of a mocking sneer and added a third finger.  
He twisted his hand, searching no longer stretching, whilst the other came down to grip his cock.  
He thrust into his grip and back onto his fingers, trying to believe it was something much for completing that was filling him, and hit his spot.

He gasped and panted head tossing about the pillows while he fucked himself on his hand and into his fist, wishing it was something else entirely. It felt so good now, too good and he knew he wouldn’t last long.  
He sped up thrusts and strokes hips bucking in spasms, not knowing which direction to go in.

He felt the waves of heat and pleasure burn white hot inside him, felt it coil sweetly at the base of his spine.

It snapped, and he was lost.

He came, spilling messily into his fist and over his chest, the name of a revolutionary god torn from his lips like a prayer.

As he came down, as the pleasure faded and he slid his own hand out of himself the guilt set in. The emptiness, the shame, the agony returned.

Spend still drying on his skin he turned, buried his face in the pillows and wept over what would never be his.


	6. Dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Sexual fantasy about someone we wouldn't expect you to think of that way

It was not something Grantaire spoke on, in fact he tried to ignore it as best he could. It was awkward, having such dreams about him, he felt like it sullied his friend in some way. He would not deny they were good dreams though. They fulfilled a part of his psyche that many other fantasies didn’t, some how he felt that rather made it worse.

They always started the same. They sat talking, relaxed, alone as they not often were. They were both rather affectionate but at some point a touch lingered or turned to a caress and they would catch each others gaze, something unspoken now between them.  
He lifted a hand to their face, engaged them in a soft kiss, not filthy or harsh like most he gave, but tender.  
A hand carded through his as he pulled back to whisper against the other’s lips.  
“Are you sure, mon ami?” he swallowed “Jehan…are you certain you would ask this of me”  
The answer was a smile and a soft uttered yes as he is coaxed into another lazy kiss.  
He relaxed into it easily, wrapping his arms around his friend. In a way they were both pretending, neither what the other really wanted, who the other really wanted, but there was nothing wrong with taking comfort in each other. If those that inspired them would not have them, then they would have each other.  
It was never the same with Jehan as with anyone else. Touches were softer, full of promise and intent, passion tempered with kindness, lust tempered with love for a friend. Jehan was full of love, and to love him this way was unlike loving any other. Every touch was filled with emotion, and for a love and touch starved artist it was almost like drowning, but it was so sweet he would not change it.

Kisses turned deeper, caresses more firm as they became lost to it, as they became more wanting.  
“Gods Jehan” a praise and a prayer breathed against a poets lips. They rose, hands entwined and made for the bedroom, soft kisses exchanged along the way.  
Once there they stripped eachother, but was not rushed, not frantic like most encounters he had. Each touch was calculated and the slowness made it sweeter.

He pulled the poet down into the mess of fabrics that was his bed. There they exchanged more kisses, skin slid against skin and caresses became explorations as they found what made the other gasp and moan.  
Eventually, both hard and panting now, hips slowly sliding against hips as they took their pleasure, a question would be asked.  
“How shall we do this”  
“However you want, mon cher. I am used to these pleasures you are not. I know I am not your first Jehan but…I would make up for that experience if you let me. Have things however you would like, have me however you would like. I promise, either way would be exquisite”  
Prouvaire smiled “Then replace that first with a better first. I may have you however I would like? I would have you, have me. Rene…I trust you”  
Grantaire groaned at the confession, delivering soft kisses to the poet’s skin.  
“Very well, mon cher”  
He draws out the preparation, wanting Jehan to know the pleasure of it, wanting to make it good for him.  
When the poet is panting and mewling, canting his hips towards Grantaire’s thrusting fingers, needing them deeper, needing more, the artist knows he is ready.

He takes his time here too, stretching only does so much good and he would not want his friend to feel pain. Once he is inside Jehan it is good. So good.  
The poet is writhing, desperately wanting movement and he is hot and tight and slick around the artist.  
“R-rene..ah, please”  
Who is he to refuse such pleas.  
His thrusts are slow and rolling and languid. He strokes and caresses the man beneath him, kisses him long and deep, brings him to new heights.  
When they finally reach their peaks it is together and it is so sweet.  
They curl around each other afterwards smiling and sated.

He wakes slowly from this dream, and while he feels guilty, feels like they merely use and substitute each other in it, he feels better for it. There are no other dreams he has that are quite so gentle.


	7. Filthy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: His most pleasurable fantasy

He would ply his partner with absinthe. Til the blood in their veins ran hot and heavy, til every heart beat sent pulses of dark pleasure as well as blood. He would kiss and touch and run his fingers through golden curls.

Grantaire would lead them to a bed covered in soft fabrics and bind their hands and feet with silk. Tight enough that they could move somewhat, but not touch either themselves or him. Would trace his hands over their skin, rub his body against theirs, exploring, memorizing, feeling. Then take more cooled absinthe and slowly tip it over them to run in rivulets across their skin. Their breath hitching from the temperature and from his wicked mouth chasing every drop to drink off of their skin. He would bind their eyes too, so that all they could focus on was his touch, his hands and mouth, and his voice speaking filthy promises. He would tempt and tease and keep them in desperation for time within time as he worshiped their body.

The artist would take time to teach them true pleasure, to teach them the secrets of their body they would never else have known, to turn them towards pure hedonism.

He would take his time and bring them such ecstasy with his mouth upon them, such pleasure would he give, and take from giving it.

Once they were incoherent, incandescent, with pleasure, Grantaire would prepare himself and straddle and sink down on to them. He would use them for his pleasure whilst brining them theirs. They would break first from such lengthy teasing and the warmth filling him would push the artist over too. He would rub my release into their skin to claim them as his own.

Grantaire would undo their bonds and blindfold and sink into their embrace, trading lazy kisses until sleep claimed them both.


	8. Stress and Relief

It was not uncommon, his boredom, or at least it had not been uncommon in the past. Now he had plans to work on, research that needed doing. He was supposed to be figuring out ways to decommission, dismantle and possibly steal cannons from the national guard, to aid in his friends efforts. He’d spent weeks doing such now, and hours this day. A pounding had been starting to develop behind his eyes.  
He’d taken a break, a much needed one. Returned to his wine after days of ignoring it. It felt good.

Heat and intoxication flowing through his veins again. He could feel his body relaxing, muscles unwinding, untensing, headache fading into numbness. The stress of the planning gradually draining away. In the absence of it all, something else flowed in to fill the gap. Reminding him of something else he’d been ignoring, another way he’d been neglecting himself. As the stress flowed out, a pulsing, feverish heat poured in.

He rose from where he’d been sitting, drinking. He staggered into the bedroom, clothes swiftly discarded. He sunk down onto the bed, sprawled out across it, and wrapped a hand around his swiftly hardening cock with a moan. He shuddered at the sensation, the pleasant spinning in his head, and headiness pulsing through his veins only adding to the feeling. He’d waited far too long this time, he wouldn’t last. Too far gone to draw things out, his strokes were swift and firm, not bothering to tease. His release built quickly, molten heat pooling at the base of his spine before with a long drawn out moan he spilled over his fist. As he came down a name spilled over his lips, slurred for alcohol and tiredness, but recognisable all the same.

Spend slowly cooling on his stomach, he stretched lazily and began to fall into the strange spiralling drift that was the decent into deep, intoxicated sleep.


	9. Feathers and Sweet Anise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Grantaire has been cursed with wings for the day. Sensitive wings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was due to magic anons and should be noted this is the second time this has happened to Grantaire.

It had been a lazy day. He dare not leave his flat with the wings this time and the fact that they were larger only meant that they brushed against more things. The sensation was becoming overwhelming. So Grantaire did what he knew from experience numbed him to most things overwhelming: he drank.

The absinthe was gloriously bitter sweet and it had been too, too long since he last indulged. Drinking down glass after glass he wondered why he had waited so long to do this again.  
Soon his head was spinning pleasantly, sensations numbed, vision swimming.

The alcohol had other effects on him though, they worked rather in contrast with the numbing he had sought. His blood felt heated as it pulsed through him, each pulse making his head spin and pleasure throb through him. He tossed back the last of a glass of Absinthe with a involuntary moan as it burned beautifully all the way down his throat.

He rose from his seat and stumbled into bed, the drink making his movements clumsy, his body wanton and his delirious mind was dragged along for the ride. He quickly and messily dragged his clothes off, his upper half already bare as shirts were far too awkward with the new appendages.

He pressed the wings back against the bed, sensation no longer overwhelming but just right, just perfect, just so good. He wrapped a hand around himself stroking quickly even as he writhed wantonly against both feathers and covers. Breathy moans and curses fell from his lips with ever pleasured movement. He wasn’t going to last long, everything was just too good like this.

Soon he was spilling over his hand with a long drawn out moan. He collapsed against the bed afterward. Body spent, wings still slightly numbed and blessed sleep coming to him at last.


	10. Boredom and Unquenched Fires

He thust into his franticly stroking hand, panting. His other hand fisted tight in his own curls as he writhed on the bed. Breathy whines escaping from his lips, he was so close.  
Oh  
There.  
His toes curled and he arched up into his fist as release hit him, a low moan wrung from his lips as he spilled onto his own stomach.  
He relaxed back onto the bed, lazily stroking himself though the last spurts.  
His eyelids fluttered, chest still heaving.

 

He stared up at the cealing and licked his lips. Slowly he dragged two fingers through the cooling mess on his belly and brought them to his lips, wantonly sucking his own spend from them.  
He may have taken the edge of but the want and desire still swirled in his veins, and it was driving him to utter distraction this day.


	11. Absinthe and a Libertine Mind

Grantaire tipped back another glass of absinthe, properly prepared. Alcohol and wormwood swirling through his veins.  
He felt fantastic, so very good.  
His head spun and his blood burned and every beat of his heart sent a pulse of delicious spin and burn and pleasure through him and he groaned and shifted in his chair as the effects began to make themselves known.

This is was the part of intoxication that he loved the most and as he reached for the last prepared glass, a lopsided smirk on his face, his hand slipped down to palm himself.

Oh that felt good.

He licked his lips and thrust back lazily against his own touch, tipped his head back to drink deeply from the glass, gulping it down in one. Not caring for savoring taste, only for more of these wonderful sensations.

Placing the glass down he toyed with the buttons of his trousers, glancing mournfully at the empty bottle, when his eyes lit up with an idea and a wicked smirk stretched his lips.

The artist rose, unsteadily and swiped the bottle from the table, staggering into his bedroom. He pulled off his clothes into a messy heap, and collapsed among the mess of fabrics and quilts that made up his bed, taking a moment to just rub himself against them and delight at the textures across his skin. It felt even better like this than it did normally.

R crawled up the bed, grabbing a bottle of oil from the nightstand. He rolled onto his back and coating his fingers with it, reached down to start lazily prepping himself.  
He pressed one finger in, not wanting to tease with how wound up he was from the absinthe. The sensation had him gasping, everything felt so good like this, it was so much easier to relax into it as well.

Soon one finger became two, became three, and he was more than gasping, whimpering and moaning as he thrust back on them. Head tossed back against the pillows, pupils blown, cheeks flushed and lips red from where he had bitten them.

He withdrew his hand, wincing at the loss, and rose up onto his knees. He took the empty absinthe bottle and slicked the neck with oil, it was a clumsy process, alcohol still burning strong in his veins.  
He held the bottle beneath him, against him, and slowly sat back.

“Oh fuck”

He sank down onto it moaning at the sensation of being filled by something other than his own fingers. It felt good, really good.  
He raised up and dropped down slightly, throwing his head back with a gasp. Really, really good.

“Yes”

He rolled his hips languidly, grinding the bottle into him as he rocked back onto it again and again. He let it slide a little deeper each time until finally he hit that spot.

“Ah, oh gods”

Grantaire sped up, rocking back onto the bottle, grinding it against his prostate, one hand braced on the wall for leverage while the other slid down to stroke himself in time with his motions.

It felt so much better than he had imagined, and at this rate he wasn’t going to last long.

While his pleasure warred with absinthe to spin his mind and send fire through his blood, the coiling low in his gut was pure pleasure and he could feel it building fast.

He panted and moaned and rocked back harder, stroking himself along with it and with one slam against his spot his mouth hung loose in a long loud moan as pleasure slammed through him and he spilled messily over his fist.

He leant his head against the wall as he came down. Mind spinning with absinthe alone once more, he lifted himself off with trembling thighs to collapse back against the covers.

Well, that had been much better than expected, he might have to try it again sometime.


End file.
